


There Are More Important Things

by a_nonny_moose



Series: 100 Quote Prompts [27]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 21:27:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14627370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: The Googles' secondary objective has been activated, and they're out for blood.





	There Are More Important Things

“Today would’ve been a disaster without you.”  


“You mean that?”

“I—well,” Dark looked up, startled, steel enveloping his voice again. “Don’t read too much into it, Trimmer.”

* * *

FOUR HOURS EARLIER

* * *

“Secondary objective activated.”

“Blue, I—” Dr. Iplier didn’t finish his sentence before Google_B swung, hard for his jaw. Dr. Iplier jerked back, Google_B’s fist slamming into the wall with the _crack_ of plaster and metal. “I just wanted to see if you were doing okay—”

“Secondary objective is to destroy mankind.” Google_B’s eyes flashed, red, and Dr. Iplier had the good sense to run out of his office—his _own_ office—into the hallway, looking for someone, anyone, who would help. 

Google_B’s footsteps followed him, clunking metal only half-muffled by carpet. Dr. Iplier turned, trying to see how close he was—

And promptly ran headlong into another figment, stumbling into their arms. 

“Why, Doctor.” 

“Bim, now is not the time—”

Bim steadied Dr. Iplier with a hand on his shoulder, aura draining away at the urgency in his voice. “Wh—”

Google_B barreled into the hallway before Bim could finish. A whirr, a click, and his head snapped in the direction of Dr. Iplier and Bim, clutching at each other’s arms in the middle of the hallway.

“Run.”

Bim wasn’t sure which one of them said it, but he’d seen enough to know that something was very, _very_ wrong. Together, he and Dr. Iplier sprinted down the hall, making for the studio with sound—and hopefully, robot-proof doors. 

Bim made it in first, nearly diving for the handle in his rush. Dr. Iplier got one hand on the door frame before Google_B grabbed the back of his coat, trailing too far behind him. 

“Googs, let GO!” Bim scrabbled for a hold on Dr. Iplier’s wrists, tug-of-war on the threshold of safety. 

Google_B beeped, a beat of something like confusion, and Dr. Iplier’s coat ripped open. The android fell backward, and Dr. Iplier pitched forward on top of Bim. 

Bim fumbled for the door to close it, rolling the doctor off of him. He looked up for a moment, gauging the danger, to see Google_B staring back, blank. Oliver, followed by Google_R, then _G, ran up behind him.

Bim paused, cautious relief. “Googles, I think something’s wrong with Blue—”

In unison, as Google_R helped Google_B off the floor, their eyes flashed red. “Secondary objective active.”

Bim slammed the door, his entire weight against it as it locked. This was very, very bad.

“Nice of you two to pop in.”

“Wilford, you ass.”

“You—saw—all that?” Dr. Iplier panted from the floor, still looking thoroughly shell-shocked. 

Wilford squatted, butterfly knife between his fingers, and poked Dr. Iplier unhelpfully with the handle. “What’s up, Doc?”

“Will,” Bim huffed, pushing his hair out of his face, “we have a _situation_ here.”

“The situation is that you just interrupted my rehearsal!”

From outside, there was a mechanical beep, and all three of them fell silent. The Googles could easily break down the door, if they tried. 

Silently, Bim moved to hold the lock in place, bracing himself. Wilford pulled Dr. Iplier to his feet, then flipped his knife.

 _Click-click_.

They stood, magic against machine, waiting for a laser, a killing blow: something, anything.

Another beep, as if confirming the first, and the sound of four androids trooping away.

Wilford was the first to move, breaking their tense silence. “What was that?”

“I _told_ you,” Bim muttered, sagging, “we have a _situation_.” He swung a chair under the doorknob, and the three of them shuffled further into the studio. 

“The Googles—something’s wrong with them, or their objectives.”

Wilford _click-click_ ed his knife away again, huffing into his mustache, as he settled into a chair. “Well, what’re we supposed to do about it?”

“Unless you want them to hunt us down through the vents, we need to fix them,” Dr. Iplier growled, stiffening. He suddenly looked every inch the figment that Wilford was, and Bim reminded himself, again, that he was an outsider here. 

No one heard the door open as the Doctor and Wilford argued, but each one of them jumped when it slammed closed.

“The Host would like very much to know who it was that activated the Googles’ secondary objective.”

Bim stumbled back, seeing nothing but blood, as Dr. Iplier lunged forward. 

“Host, are you—”

“Of course.” The Host tipped his head to one side, a smile on his face. Dr. Iplier seized his shoulders, pushing him carefully into the chair that had been holding the door closed, albeit ineffectively. The Host’s bandages, unraveling, were soaked through with blood, each layer darker than the last. 

The Host’s bat clattered to the floor as he sat, for all his gusto, breathing hard. As Dr. Iplier bent over him, clean gauze appearing from nowhere, Bim picked up the bat. 

“And what’re you going to do, bash their tin-can heads in?” Wilford leaned back in his seat, watching Dr. Iplier’s hands work.

“No!” Bim fumbled, the bat falling again, and Dr. Iplier shot him a glare. “Sorry,” Bim mumbled, leaning it against a chair. “I’m not going to hurt them,” Bim said, looking back at Wilford. “It’s not their fault that they’re trying… to… kill… us.”

“Self-defense,” Wilford retorted, pointing the tip of his knife at Bim. 

“They’re our friends, you maniac.”

“You said it yourself, Bim,” Wilford hummed, looking away. “They’re trying to kill us.”

“You’re both idiots,” Dr. Iplier huffed, helping the Host sit up, freshly bandaged. The Host felt at the gauze where it wrapped across the bridge of his nose, nodding his thanks, and Dr. Iplier sighed. “No, you can’t hurt them, Will, but they’re not going to just go back to normal.”

“Okay, we won’t bash their heads in. We’ll _stab_ them.”

“Wilford, _no_.”

“They’re still robots, and they’re still our _friends_ ,” Dr. Iplier bit out, interrupting Bim’s glare at Wilford. “There’s got to be a way to talk them down.” Dr. Iplier sank into a chair, their little circle of four silent for a moment.

The Host, lips pressed into a thin line, shook his head without a word.

Wilford shrugged, refusing to meet their eyes. “Friendship only gets you so far. Sometimes even your best friends get corrupted by something, and they’re not themselves anymore. They become—”

“Dark!” Bim jumped in surprise, glaring at shadows. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m here to fix whatever the lot of you have broken this time.” Dark stepped into the light with a whirl of smoke, sneering. Wilford sat up a little straighter. “What’s going on?”

“I’d like to know why the Googles are full-on berserk mode, thank you.” Dr. Iplier sat forward, glaring at Dark. 

“The Host would also like to know what—or who—has caused this.” 

“We’ll have time to talk _after_ the Googles are neutralized,” Dark said, eyes glinting. “Blame can _and will_ be adequately placed afterwards.”

As if on cue, the door rattled dangerously.

_Beep beep. Beeeep beep. Beep beep beep. Beep beep. Beeeeeeep beep beep. Beep._

The Host cursed under his breath as the argument paused, everyone turning to watch the door strain at its hinges. “They know. Now is the time for planning, not arguing.”

Dark started to speak, but Wilford put a hand up to silence him as Dr. Iplier jumped forward. 

“I know what you and Will are going to say,” Dr. Iplier started, just short of begging, “but violence, here, is not the answer. Let me talk to them.”

“It looks as if Dark is not going to have much of a choice,” the Host muttered, and the door caved in.

“Get back!” Wilford was on his feet first, he and Dark pushing the others behind them. The Host was the only one who didn’t move, sitting back in his seat to listen.

The Googles stormed in, each of them glowing red. Google_B stepped out in front of them, eye-to-eye with Dark.

“Secondary objective active.”

“I’m well aware.”

A pause, and Dr. Iplier pushed past Dark and Wilford to stand in no-man’s land, amongst discarded props on the dirty blackbox floor of the studio. 

Bim, holding his breath, peeked over their shoulders. 

“Blue—”

“Google Model Blue.” His eyes flashed, almost amused. “Subject zero-four-nine identified.”

“Model Blue,” Dr. Iplier corrected himself, stiffening. Every inch of him was pulled tight, a cord about to snap. “What is your primary objective?”

“Primary objective: null.”

“Your secondary objective?”

“Secondary objective: destroy mankind.”

“Google Model Blue,” Dr. Iplier said, reaching out a hand, “how do you define mankind?”

Google_B blinked, suspicious. Behind him, the three others stood as if waiting for a command. “Mankind is defined as human beings considered collectively; the human race.”

“Are we—are any of us human?” Dr. Iplier gestured to the eight of them, a motley crew hunkered in the shadows. 

Google_B whirred for a moment, and Google_G stepped forward. His voice echoed in the quiet of the room. “Figments are reflections of an imperfect human race, a reflection of the—” he sneered the word, “— _magic_ of a collective human consciousness.”

“Noted,” Google_B nodded, and both Google_R and Oliver took a step forward, closing the distance. 

In unison, voices becoming one eerie echo, they spoke again. “Secondary objective updated: destroy mankind **and all such reflections**.”

As their eyes glinted red, Wilford pulled Dr. Iplier back by the shoulder. “Nice job,” he muttered, a second, larger knife manifesting from nowhere. “If they weren’t going to kill us earlier, they certainly are now.”

“Googles,” Dark snapped, even as they started to advance, liquid grace. “Stand down.”

“Subject one-four-four-seven identified. Secondary objective active.”

“Should you attempt to carry out your secondary objective, you will be terminated.” Dark’s aura snapped forward between them, protective, a set of gleaming fangs to rival Dark’s own. “Googles, stand down.”

Google_R’s eyes flickered with something close to a smile. “Secondary objective is to destroy mankind. Models Blue, Red, Green, Yellow: expendable.”

Dark wavered for a moment, and the Googles saw their opportunity.

“Engage.” 

Google_B hit first, sailing into Dark with fists raised. Dark’s aura caught him, as if in a whirlwind, and lifted the two of them off their feet. 

Wilford, the fastest of all of them, lunged at Google_R with his knife drawn. Google_R, eyes flashing, took a half step back, throwing him off-balance. “Subject two-three-zero identified.”

“You’re outnumbered,” Wilford spat, his own aura starting to leak from his eyes. 

Google_R tilted his head, unresponsive, and sprung forward.

Oliver and Google_G advanced on the Host as the other two most powerful figments took off, dancing around the studio in a whirl of pink and black, blue and red. The Host shoved Dr. Iplier behind him, then Bim. 

“The Googles recognize the Host, and step back.”

Google_G stepped back, straining against the Host’s spun-steel power.

The Host frowned, something dangerously close to impatience entering his voice. “Oliver recognizes the Host, and steps back.”

“Request ignored.”

“It is not a _request_.” The Host muttered under his breath, and his bat materialized again in his hand. “ _Google Yellow_ must understand the danger it is in. It moves to deactivate its secondary objective.”

“Subject two-nine-nine-eight identified.” Oliver tilted his head to one side, a cruel smile lighting his face. “Request denied.”

Google_G stepped forward again, smiling identically. Bim, clutching Dr. Iplier’s arm, made to pull the Host back.

The Host moved before Bim got there, swinging for Oliver’s head. There was the _clunk_ of metal on metal, and the Host wound up to swing again. Oliver and Google_G backed up, seething, as the Host muttered to himself. He swung again, the robots starting to circle. 

Dr. Iplier pulled Bim back, reeling. “Let him handle this,” Dr. Iplier hissed, making to shove several chairs and a couch between the two of them and the fighting. “They have magic, okay? We don’t.”

Bim jumped over to help, a makeshift fort in the middle of the studio. “We _have_ magic, Doc.”

Dr. Iplier grabbed Bim’s tie, jerking him down as a burst of pink ricocheted past his head, leaving a six-inch wide hole in the wall behind them. Bim stared. “ _That’s_ magic,” Dr. Iplier snapped, his own power glowing blue in frustration. “What we have, Bim? It’s nothing compared to these three.”

“But—”

“Just—” Dr. Iplier collapsed in a heap behind their fort, suddenly tired, suddenly old. “—just sit, Bim, and wait.”

Bim, unable to help himself, peeked over the edge of the couch.

The Host parried Google_G and Oliver with terrifying accuracy, a whirl of motion. His power wasn’t as loud and bright as Wilford’s, nor as obvious as Dark’s—it was quiet, defensive. And here, where that failed, he had a bat.

Bim looked away, wincing, as sparks flew. The Host had this handled, even if he worried for the Googles’ safety afterward. 

Wilford and Google_R went hand-to-knife, a dance that took them across the stage and into carefully painted set pieces, gleaming with Wilford’s blade and Google_R’s glow. 

As Bim watched, Wilford ducked under Google_R’s punch, knife aimed for his stomach. Google_R, in one movement, backed away, bringing his arm down on Wilford’s head with what was almost certainly the cracking of bone.

Bim sprang up, about to scream. “Wilford?!” 

Dr. Iplier dragged him back down, muffling him. “You can’t,” he painted, “draw attention to yourself.”

“But Will—”

“—can handle himself.” Dr. Iplier glared, barely flinching as another pink bolt buried itself in the far wall. “You can’t.”

Bim started to shoot back, but his words were lost in the scream, then crash, that shook the walls.

Bim and Dr. Iplier looked over the couch as the smoke cleared, afraid for what they might see. 

The Host and Oliver were still on their feet, fighting, as Google_G staggered back, eyes blinking wildly. Wilford and Google_R struggled, knife cast aside, at a stalemate. 

Google_B looked down at them, and it took Bim a moment to realize that he was staring not at him and Dr. Iplier, but at Dark, knocked to the ground before them. 

Dark looked up, gritted teeth, disheveled. “Google Blue, _stand down_.”

“Subject one-four-four-seven to be eliminated.” Google_B advanced, flickering, jaw nearly unhinged by Dark’s fight. Dark’s aura reared up, smoke and shadows, to stop him. It washed over Google_B, trying to find an entrance, trying to corrupt. Google_B waved it away: smoke and shadows, and nothing more. He smiled, and Dark struggled backwards, hurt. 

Dr. Iplier knew what was going to happen before it did, but reached out to stop it anyway. “Bim, no!”

“Blue!” Bim vaulted over the couch in a clean jump, skidding to put himself between Dark and Google_B. “You can’t,” he said—for all appearances, begging, but with a set to his shoulders that stopped Dr. Iplier from jumping forward.

Google_B didn’t stop, taking another step forward. 

“Blue.” 

Bim planted himself, and Dr. Iplier, behind him, scrambled forward to pull Dark to safety. Dark, refusing help, collapsed against the couch, watching Bim. “Curious, isn’t it?”

“Shut _up_ , Dark, you’re dying.”

“It’s a broken rib, at best,” Dark hissed, but flinching nonetheless as Dr. Iplier healed it. His eyes glimmered, quiet satisfaction. “I mean Trimmer.”

And Dr. Iplier, too, turned to watch. 

Bim had his hands against Google_B’s chest, trying and failing to physically stop him from getting closer to the rest of them. “You need to stop. _Please_.”

“Subjecy zero-seven-one acknowledged.”

“My name is Bim, and you _know_ that.”

“Secondary objective active. All other concerns tertiary.”

“Why?!” Bim finally, almost screamed, in frustration. “Why do you have to follow that stupid objective, Blue?”

The barest hesitation, then: “Secondary objective active.”

“I—” Bim looked up, just short of collapsing into Google_B’s chest. “There are more important things,” he almost whispered, and Google_B, for the first time, looked down at him. “Friendship,” Bim went on, mumbling into Google_B’s shirt. “Making pancakes late at night, and talking to you about Star Wars, and—and starting new projects.” Bim looked up, scared, catching Google_B’s red-eyed stare. “That’s important too.”

“I do not—”

“But you _do._ ” Bim stepped closer, and Google_B took an uncertain step back, whirring, still flashing red. “Blue, you’re not just a Google. You’re my friend.”

“Friend?” Google_B took another step back, shaking Bim off of him. Behind Bim, Dark stood, and Google_B hesitated.

The hesitation was enough, and Dark’s aura snaked forward. Smoke solidified, like so many daggers, stabbed themselves into him.

Bim screamed.

* * *

It didn’t take long to deactivate Google_G, then Oliver, then Google_R (although Wilford seemed awfully enthusiastic to keep wrestling with him, “just for fun”). Dr. Iplier wheeled them back to their room, accompanied by Wilford, to fix them as best as they could. The Host, shouldering his bat and a fresh bag of gauze, disappeared into his room before Google_R had hit the floor. Dark, nodding to the others, had already started for his office when Bim stopped him.

“Dark?”

“Trimmer.”

“Uh—” Bim looked down, shrinking. “I, uh—”

Dark said, “I suppose I should thank you,” at the same time that Bim said, “I’m sorry.” They stared at each other for a moment, surprise mingling with relief. 

“Go on, then,” Dark motioned, pride swallowed. 

“I- I wanted to say sorry, for jumping in like that.” Bim drew back, imperceptibly. “It was dumb and I almost got us all killed and—and—”

“Trimmer.” Dark interrupted him with something approaching gentility, catching his eye. “Bim. Come with me.”

* * *

PRESENT

* * *

“But you’re—not mad?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Dark scowled, tugging at his tie. “Your interference may be the only reason that I am standing here, Bim, and that is invaluable.”

“I—er, thanks.” Bim sighed, looking out the window of Dark’s office. The sun was setting outside, and Dark followed his gaze. “Some day, huh, Dark?”

“Indeed.” Dark drummed his fingers for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“I’ll- I’ll go.” Bim jumped to his feet, and Dark mirrored him, rising at his desk. 

“That’s all right,” Dark said, his aura stilling for a moment. “Do take care of yourself, Bim.”

Bim paused, frantically trying to catch up. “I will. Thank you, Dark.”

Dark was silent, watching Bim leave, a flush rising to his cheeks. 

At the door, Bim paused. “Take care of yourself too, okay?”

“I—”

“I mean it.” Bim turned with a familiar determination filling out his shoulders. “It’s not all about your objective, Dark. If you need anything, I’m—I mean, we’re here for you.”

Dark, taken aback, could only nod. Bim nodded back, a smile lifting his lips, and closed the door. 


End file.
